


Giveaway fic #4

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 500 Tumblr Followers Giveaway Fics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But with a happy ending!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, gun - Freeform, gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back. John is shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giveaway fic #4

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [@watsonsanatomy](http://watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> Her (angsty, angsty) prompt was:  
>  _I didn't forget about the ficlet giveaway, I just haven't been able to think of something until now. It's a little vague, but I would love John angst, like the three garridebs, but besides confessing their feelings for each other, I'd like a bit of the aftermath, at the hospital, John is still in a lot of pain and barely aware and Sherlock doesn't know what to do but stay by his bed side. Basically, I'd like a lot of John in pain/angst before it starts getting a little better. Thank you! :)_

The only thing Sherlock can think as the suspect pulls a gun from his pocket is _This can’t be happening_ on a constant loop. He tenses as he hears John utter a curse beside him.

It’s their first case since John moved back in with him, barely a four initially, meant to ease John back into The Work, but now? It’s easily an eight, and the gunman is raising his weapon, and _he’s pointing it at Sherlock_.

There’s a click.

Several things happen at once, but the only things Sherlock are aware of are the sound of a gunshot and that he’s suddenly on the ground, a heavy weight on top of him, cutting off his air. He opens his mouth wide, taking huge, gasping breaths, but the weight on his chest is threatening to stop his breathing altogether. In the distance, he hears the suspect running away, and why is he wet?

The wetness is what brings him back to the present, his mind quickly informing him that it’s obviously blood, that besides his breathing issue, he’s not in any pain, and that the weight above him is taking shallow, hiccupping breaths as its life drains out through its right shoulder.

_John._

Using all of his strength, he flips them over, straddling John’s prone, alarmingly grey form as he frantically dials Lestrade’s number.

“John is hurt, John is hurt, send us an ambulance RIGHT NOW!” he bellows into his mobile. It drops from his numb fingers as he looks down helplessly at John.

John’s lips are moving, but nothing is coming out, and it looks like it takes a tremendous effort for him to finally gasp out, “Pressure!”

Sherlock tears his scarf from his throat and presses it as firmly as he can onto the wound. His hands are shaking madly, and he’s fairly certain he’s babbling incoherently, but none of that matters now, because if John dies now, _nothing will ever matter again_ , and John is looking at him with wide, suddenly lucid eyes, and is he saying all of this out loud!?

“Yes,” John croaks, the rest of his body no longer moving. He smiles a little, but then his eyes start to droop shut.

“John, no, no, stay with me!” Sherlock presses as hard as he can, but he can still see the blood welling up around his fingers, around his scarf. “JOHN!”

John’s eyes fly open again and he gives a great gasp. His gaze settles immediately on Sherlock. “You—,” he begins, but a small bubble of blood forms on his lips and he stops, coughing, and Sherlock feels a part of himself die.

“You were brilliant,” he manages to choke out, but then his eyes close again.

“JOHN! _JOHN_!”

John’s eyes stay closed, this time.

“John, please,” he begs, and this time he can feel the tears sliding down his nose. “Please.”

John’s form remains completely still. Sherlock can hear sirens in the distance.

“Please. I love you,” he whispers, the strength in his arms fading, the blood still oozing out beneath his fingers. “I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you_ —.”

***  
Sherlock sits at John’s empty bedside for six hours while he’s in surgery. Mycroft comes in three times to update him, but the words do nothing to comfort him.

_Still touch and go._

_Possible nerve damage._

_His heart stopped, but they’ve brought him back._

Sherlock has never felt this numb before. It takes him five minutes to finally register the last thing that Mycroft says.

_They’re bringing him here, now._

He doesn’t even notice Mycroft leave.

***  
John remains asleep for two days after the surgery. Sherlock leaves the room once to go to the toilet.

The guilt quickly overwhelms the sense of relief he feels at not having to look at the grey, still figure on the bed.

***  
John wakes on the third day. There’s a wonderful, quiet moment where their gazes lock, and John’s eyes are warm. Sherlock lets a smile spread across his lips and hopes John doesn’t notice how haggard he probably looks. He hasn’t slept in three days, after all.

Then, something flashes across John’s face, and suddenly he’s grimacing in pain, thrashing on the bed, and then the room is full of doctors and nurses and Sherlock lets himself fade into the background.

***  
The next time John wakes only goes slightly better.

“How—,” he begins, but his throat is dry as bone, and he doesn’t get any further. Sherlock leaps off the chair and feeds him an ice chip.

“How long have I been here?” John finally gets out.

“You’re not going to like the answer,” Sherlock tells him.

“Since when are you one to sugar coat things?”

John’s smiling, but there’s an edge of Captain Watson in his voice, and he’s right. Sherlock isn’t one to sugar coat things.

“It’s been a week, John.”

“A week!? It was just—.”

“Your heart stopped during surgery. They have to keep you here for observation. They also—.”

“My— what!? Give me my chart, Sherlock,” John says, and the steely undertone in his voice brooks no argument.

Sherlock tries just for the sake of it.

“John, you’re not supposed to…”

The look on John’s face is like nothing Sherlock has ever seen. He gets up and hands John his chart. He knows he isn’t supposed to, but he’s read it, too.

_Permanent nerve damage. Recommend at least 6 months of physiotherapy. Results uncertain_.

He watches as John’s face becomes blank.

He slowly raises his head.

“So that’s it, then,” he says, his voice devoid of all emotion.

Sherlock is uncharacteristically confused. “What’s it?”

“Why are you still here?”

“I— What? Why wouldn’t I—.”

“I can’t help you with the cases anymore,” John says.

“It says you’ll do physiotherapy. It says—.”

“Results uncertain.”

“What?”

“Results uncertain. I’m useless to you. Get out, Sherlock.”

“John, I—.”

“Get out.”

And Sherlock does.

***  
He doesn’t go far. He sits just below the window of John’s room, occasionally peeking his head up to see what John’s doing.

For about an hour, John simply looks straight ahead, unmoving, his face hard.

An hour after that, Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin when John gives an almighty roar. There’s a resounding crash as John throws the entire contents of his chart across the room with his less-bad arm, and several nurses go rushing inside as Sherlock covers his face with his hands.

He hears them yelling about a sedative, and then there’s silence.

He goes back into the room, pulls his tiny plastic chair as close to the bed as possible, and takes John’s left hand in both of his.

He carefully rests his head on John’s chest as he waits for him to wake up again.

***  
He must have fallen asleep, too, because the next thing he’s aware of are John’s fingers delicately carding through his hair.

Sherlock has made his decision. If he’s being honest with himself, it wasn’t even a particularly difficult one to make.

“I have a cottage in Sussex,” he blurts out.

“That’s… good to know?” John says. The anger has faded, and Sherlock is grateful.

“No,” Sherlock says, frustrated. “It’s for…”

The words are surprisingly hard to get out, considering what he had been telling John’s still body only a week ago.

He takes a breath.

“If we can’t take cases anymore. We could. We could retire. To the cottage in Sussex.”

He waits.

“I can’t ask you to do that, Sherlock. You would go mad without the work.”

The sadness in John’s voice is doing something awful in Sherlock’s chest.

“It’s not the work I would go mad without.”

There’s a long silence, as though John is carefully considering what he’s about to say. What ends up coming out is, “So I didn’t hallucinate that, then.”

“Hallucinate what?”

“You love me.” John states it like the incontrovertible truth that it is.

“I love you,” Sherlock confirms. He’s quite certain his heart will leap out through his mouth any second now, despite how anatomically impossible such an eventuality should be.

John continues stroking his hair as if he hasn’t just said the most momentous thing in his entire life.

“I’ll do the physiotherapy,” he says.

“And if—.”

“And if it doesn’t work, or if my range of motion is too limited, we’ll retire to Sussex.”

“And I’ll keep bees.”

“And you’ll… what?”

“I’ll keep bees,” Sherlock repeats. He has to do something out there, after all.

“You’re insane.”

“I—.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s heart surges dangerously in his throat.

“We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, aren’t we?” John asks.

“I— Do you want to?” Sherlock whispers back.

“I jumped in front of a gunman for you, you git. Yes,” John says. “Do you?”

“Of course I do, you idiot—.”

John cuts him off by leaning carefully down and kissing him.

“So that’s it, then,” he says, and the entire room lights up with his smile.


End file.
